


Fragmented

by impossiblewanderings



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Horror, Post-TDK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 05:14:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7702114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblewanderings/pseuds/impossiblewanderings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Joker tires of Arkham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> The release of Suicide Squad has reignited my dormant Joker obsession. Moving some old TDK stories over from FF.net. Based on prompts from the Livejournal community 'Knives and Lint'.

In the soul-freezing darkness of Arkham, the Joker is a gargoyle, a corpse freshly reanimated. The shadows soften the edges of his razorblade smile.

He arrays his stories carefully, and drops the slivers down the throats of the begging whitecoats one by one, pieces of meat for his fawning dogs.

It makes him smile, when he is alone, how they cringe and whine at his feet, how they scrap and howl over the rancid meat of his lies, the bullshit and the scraps of truth to flavour, fresh blood poured on roadkill to hide the stench.


	2. Bruise

At night, there is never silence.

Werewolf howls stab the darkness, shrieks and curses, snatches of poetry and cries for mothers who lie dead and worm-ridden.

Every night he receives his visitors graciously, laughs himself into breathless wheezes as the orderlies pound his flesh black and blue. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine fists studded in leather, a cold fury that burns and seethes, turn the gibbering of his fellow inmates to the growl of Gotham at midnight.

Their blows string a symphony of pleasure along his nerves - behind his eyelids he paints the Batman, and is briefly content.


	3. Dream

The Joker does not usually dream.

The drugs bring hallucinations; the floor pitches beneath his feet, faces bulge from the walls. But he greets these visions coldly, knows the bitter tang of their genesis.

Before, in those long watches of the night, he remembers making bombs in one jumbled hideout or another, the slow warm satisfaction he takes from the skill.

His dreams now are like tangled wires, colourful and elongated, leading to dead ends. His frustration spills into them; he dreams of locked doors and grey rooms, of being slowly choked with white fabric, and wakes exhausted and angry.


	4. Fear

The Joker has always had a talent for fear.

He wears a clown's face, and terror runs thick in the blood of those who oppose him. His pockets are filled with knives, and the cowards he butchers with them whimper for mercy. He has broken free of the rules that trap and weaken humanity, and they cluster like cows in a pen, and call him predator.

He does not fear the whine of a bullet, the sting of a blade, the threats of weak and whining men.

But after a month in Arkham, he begins to fear his own mind.


	5. Plan

When purposeless, the mind begins to play tricks.

For as long as he can remember, the Joker has had some purpose in mind. From the moment he drew on that infamous purple coat to the moment the door of his Arkham cell slammed shut behind him, he has had a plan, a shadowy and changeable thing of course, able to be adapted at a moment's notice, but still visible at the back of his mind, coiled like a serpent, cold and poisonous.

In its absence he reels, falls down trapdoors in his own mind, is chilled and sickened by uncertainty.

He is _normal_.


	6. Trick

Doctor after doctor is paraded before him, and he judges each one the minute they enter the room. They beg entrance to his mind, those fabled, unstable lands, from which they can draw money and prestige, book deals and respect.

Some he rejects, sits sourly and never so much as twitches his scarred lips. Others he plays with, seducing them with secrets, enticing them with titbits, before closing off completely, leaving them shaken, broken things.

It's a performance, not for his sake, but for the bat-shaped microphone he notices amongst the ceiling's shadows.

For his next trick:  a suicide.


	7. Knife

Once, they forget.

Once, along with his bland, mushy dinner they send _cutlery_.

A fork and a knife, white, plain plastic, nothing special. But enough to kill a man with. Enough to bring back a flood of memories, each one bright as blood.

He stands and quivers with the memory of his blades; each one perfect, squat or sleek, crowned with biting silver. He remembers their weight in his pockets, rolls his shoulders and furrows his brows at the lack of resistance.

He has forgotten himself, cowering in his cell. He has become blunted and dull.

Time to sharpen up.


	8. Blood

He waits through the dull grey night until the fluorescent lights ping on in the early morning.

He has his knife, silent _oh but it sings to him like no other_ , and the flex of his hand around it is comfortingly familiar. When the orderly steps into the room, he lunges and jams his blade into the thick tendon at the side of the neck. 

They grapple, and the other man is strong, but then the scent of the blood hits, thick and sweet, as the first line trickles down his flesh, and the Joker's wasted muscles turn to iron. 


	9. Escape

The orderly paints his cell red with arterial spray, and the Joker, appreciating the sunburst of colour on those dull walls, pauses to draw a grinning face.

He keeps his shattered plastic knife, wrenching it from his victim's throat, and spins it expertly in his thin fingers. He is quick and lithe, moving lightly through the empty corridors.

At one point he meets a night nurse coming off shift, and stabs her to the heart. She falls without seeing his face, with a tiny whimper of surprise that makes him choke with amusement.


	10. Shatter

Gotham at midnight roars and heaves with activity, a siren song that keeps pulling him back to his balcony.

The Joker is shirtless, and the streetlights play over the livid scars that curl over his back and sides, trace his ribs and curve his lips. The apartment is abandoned, dusty and old, but any accommodation that he can't pace in a few strides feels huge.

In a few days he will regroup and move on. But right now, he revels in the winter wind searing his bones and making his eyes water. His unshed tears distort, rending Gotham into shattered pieces.


End file.
